It wasn’t planned this way, but our annual jaunt to Les Montagnes Bleues coincided with the “Winter Magic Festival”. As I charged up the hill to High St Katoomba, I thought, Marve! Colour and movement; though I skirted around visions of a muddy paddock and drugged-out hippies murdering the penny whistle and waifs on the congas.

Okay, sure there were more than a handful of folk dressed like they were on day release from the local funny farm, and there was a rather high percentage of those whose eyes were a tad too close together for comfort; not to mention the ubiquitous spouses who bore a striking family resemblance to each other ... But where else can you find grown-ups who still believe in fairies brushing shoulders with the pied piper and Captain Jack Sparrow?

The parade chuffed up the high street.

It was a cross between a provincial livestock fair in Medieval England and the 1978 Mardi Gras parade - though with fewer drugs. Actually, that last bit's probably a good thing.

The local chapel had a handful of wannabe Harlem songstrels belting out gospel tunes that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in downtown Mississippi. All that was missing were wire specs and pitchfork. These faithful amateurs packed a vocal punch, albeit through deformed lips and beards with chaffinches nesting in them.

The solstice: druids dancing like jesters and whistling at the moon; kids with painted faces; stray dogs howling; toothless banjo pickers; and runting, no doubt, in the backstreets of pagan Katoomba.

I couldn’t decide if it was really good fun, or really scary.

Perhaps a bit of both.